


In the Light of the Moon

by Radioheading



Series: In the Light of the Moon [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodplay, Buzzfeed Unsolved References, Buzzfeed Unsolved Supernatural, Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime, Character Turned Into Vampire, Feelings, Insecure Shane Madej, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Shane Madej Is Shook, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Vampire Turning, Vampires, creature!Ryan, creature!boys, creature!shane, vampire!Ryan, vampire!Shane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioheading/pseuds/Radioheading
Summary: The sequel to A Bridge to Go Burning Through. Ryan is like Shane, now. Shane should feel relief, but his nature, and an unseen threat might get in the way of their happiness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of my original story, but writer's block kind of changed the momentum and plot on me, so this is a reworked chapter that's heading in a slightly different direction than originally intended. I hope you enjoy it^^

Shane is in front of Ryan, curled up into the fetal position. His face is smeared in blood, his hands, pressed into his stomach and abdomen, are slick with it, fingers beginning to stick together as it clots on his skin. He's moaning quietly, a constant, unconscious noise that's worse than anything Ryan's ever heard; the whimper of a wounded dog or the wails of a hurt child have nothing on the low, deep moan that leaks out of Shane like the blood that's starting to puddle around him.

He's in an alley, and as he glances around, he notices the noise that's coming from somewhere deeper within the narrow space, emanating from the dark, high-pitched and ragged. It's pain, primal and terrified, but Ryan feels no empathy for it. It's not like him, and he knows it, but there's nothing that can take his eyes off Shane as he gasps and chokes in front of him, breath hitching in his chest, limbs twitching from shock and blood loss.

He kneels, but like a ghost, his hand passes through the other man, fingers reaching for contact they won't get. And then, movement. Out of the corner of his eye, shadows pull back and a man emerges, the aura around him crackling with power. His eyes shine, like Shane's and Ryan's own, now. The man's gaze, bright as neon, is trained on Shane. He slicks dirty-blonde hair back from where it's fallen in his face. His collar is streaked with flecks of red, shirt untucked and rumpled, like someone had been scrabbling at it, trying to find a grasp and not caring if the material was disturbed.

The man kneels over Shane, tongue clicking over his teeth as he mutters in a language Ryan doesn't understand. He runs his hand over Shane's cheek, and where Ryan should feel his hackles rising, only gratitude fills him. When the stranger raises a hand and it comes down hard, loud across Shane's cheek, Ryan takes a step forward, though his higher mind knows there's no good. He's pulled back anyway, a hand appearing in the crook of his elbow, and turns to see the same face that's laid out in front of him, though this version is whole, though his face is ashen as he takes in the scene around him.

“Shane,” He wraps his arms around the other man, uncertain of when his throat starting aching hot. His words are thick. “Is this—was this how it happened?”

“Yeah.” Shane's voice is reed-thin, but he returns the embrace, clutching Ryan's shirt just a little hard between his fingers, digging into the muscle underneath. He grips Shane tighter, feels him shudder in a breath and continues. “I haven't dreamt of this in awhile. Sorry, man.”

“No,” Ryan whispers. “I want to carry this with you, Shane. I don't want you to be in this alone.”

And then he backs up so Shane can see his eyes, can see the truth there. Shane's pouring shame and guilt through the connection, and though the feelings confuse Ryan, he turns in time to see the broken Shane, the dying Shane, spitting up his own blood before a wrist is pressed to his mouth, fingers sealing the gap until Shane has no choice but to swallow what's being poured into him.

“Brave boy,” the man says, stroking filthy hair as Shane loses consciousness.

*

 

They don't talk about this dream. Ryan tries. He wakes up, on morning four of his after-death, and looks at Shane through bleary eyes, words already trying to press between them, but Shane shakes his head, pulls Ryan close and kisses his forehead.

“Please,” he whispers into Ryan's hair, a barely there sound that ghosts across his scalp. He acquiesces, for the moment, and tucks his nose into Shane's neck, breathing deep and sighing as a wave warmth and musk and _Shane_ runs through him.

He hasn't quite figured out where sex stops and feeding begins, or vice versa. Shane's essence lights up synapses in his brain, sending messages of _maker_ and the heady pheromones of attraction, and unwinding the two seems like an exercise in impossibility. His pulse gears into overdrive, and moves lower, blood collecting in a way that makes Shane groan and buck his hips, grinding into Ryan so that the friction, a _taste_ of release, makes him gasp.

His teeth push down, fangs extruding, four sharp little points that come out like the arch of a back, the burn of a perfect stretch. He didn't expect it to feel so _good,_ didn't expect that letting go of humanity would destroy the barriers he'd carefully constructed to keep himself walled-in and blind to the reality of who he truly is. Of who Shane is.

He knows that sentimentality is rolling off him in waves thick enough to choke Hallmark Channel subscribers, but vampirism has pared down the distance in his emotions, has brought everything to the surface in a way that each change ripples through him fast and _hard,_ and he's hanging on, knowing full well that Shane's there too, witness to all he is. All he feels.

He said it gets easier, though.

It's easy enough to stop thinking entirely when Shane flips them so Ryan's on his back , Shane straddling him so every shift of his pelvis lights sparklers behind his eyes.

“Shit,” he moans, head lolling back, mouth open and fangs on display.

A soft brush of fingers across his mouth locks his eyes back on Shane's face. He's looking down at Ryan, thoughtful, tracing each of his fangs. His eyes glow, no trace of human iris left now.

“You want me?” Shane asks. He lolls his head to the side, showing a column of long, pale skin. The tendons there stand out, lust rolling off him, clenching every muscle in the chase to release. “You want this?”

Ryan thinks of a dog on its back, showing its belly and neck, waiting for an alpha's approval.

This is the opposite. Shane leaves his neck open and he _knows_ he has control. Ryan is newer, unsure, and his want leaves him open as a book for Shane to slip his fingers through.

“Yeah,” he mutters, biting into his own lips, a human habit he's going to have to get under control quick if he doesn't want to continuously shred his lips. As it is, blood dribbles down, lazy, under the give of his teeth.

Shane's mouth is on his not even a moment later, groaning as he takes Ryan's blood. He presses up, their kisses gentle at first, then more urgent as the air between them heats. Shane's thrusting lazily into him, Ryan rutting up to meet the angle of contact that makes them moan into each other's mouths.

Shane breaks the kiss, licking down Ryan's neck. He finds a spot that makes Ryan's toes curl, and if possible, he feels his teeth push out even more. He doesn't feel himself move, is barely holding on as he bites down hard, Shane's hips stuttering as a gasp is forced out of his throat, and then seals his mouth around the wound, pulling for all he's worth.

The world could be breaking apart around them, but both would be blind to it. With fireworks behind his eyes, Ryan finds release and Shane follows shortly after, twitching above him, collapsed so their limbs entwine and pleasure echoes back and forth between them.

Shane's neck is still bleeding lazily, a few beads running down to collect in his collarbone. The red is like paint against the pallor of his skin, the jut of bone a pleasing angle, connected to strong shoulders and arms. He grips Shane's biceps as he licks the blood away, saliva healing the wounds, like they never existed. He frowns a little at this, wishes he could leave something behind on Shane, even just for a little while.

“Territorial, are we?” Shane's grinning. All mussed hair and satisfied eyes, he cups Ryan's jaw, thumb running across the lips. “I don't wanna leave you.”

“But you have to.” Shane groans a bit at that, wrapping himself around Ryan and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Ryan's called out for the week, his excuse being a bad stomach flu. He's lucky he has the excuse of being almost done with the latest episode. Shane has to go in, though, to at least pretend things are the same as usual. He thinks Ryan will be ready to come back then, anyway.

“Screw work.”

Even as he says it, Shane's shifting back, grimacing at the mess in his shorts, and easing off the bed. He winks at Ryan as he walks away, turning back for just a moment.

“You gonna make me shower alone?”

 

*

There are moments where Ryan forgets himself. Moments where he grabs things carelessly, only to end up with a palm full of shattered glass. Or broken plastic. His strength is now foreign to him. Shane had laughed the first few times, kissing him on the forehead and proclaiming his gym ventures successful. It's an inside joke between them, a secret little thrill to share. Until they run out of glasses.

He can see why Shane had kept his cards so close to his chest, though. Why those down-turned eyes always held just a little bit of seriousness. Sadness. How easy it is to be unnerved by yourself once an _otherness_ settles under your skin and makes itself at home. He feels the same, but he's not. And now, if ever he forgets that, he could hurt someone. He could kill someone.

It's funny. Over campfires and at sleepovers, in hushed tones and on bated breath, he's always feared monsters. Not to the point in believing in their existence, but the _idea_ of them. The animal need to hurt. To take what's needed, flesh and blood and life, without question. Without hesitation.

And now that he _is_ something he's always feared, the idea of killing sends his stomach turning, blood blooming cold. He thinks back to the guy in the alley, his first hunt. Fragile skin and delicate bone, and vibrant screaming life streaming within him. Even when he'd let himself go, allowed instinct to take over, he hadn't wanted to kill. It had been a rush; energy and emotion, topped off by the heady buzz of however many drinks the kid had managed to imbibe before Shane had lured him outside.

Ryan blushes at the memory of what came after; of the high he'd felt, Shane's body against his, connection open and flared strong inside of him, unfurling Shane like a flower tilted toward the sun.

His reverie is broken by a soft knock at the door.

His hackles rise on instinct, a low growl sounding in his throat. He chokes it down before it echoes too far. An insistent voice in the back of his mind shrieks at him, crying out _danger_ , though he tries to back himself away from that edge before he falls over it.

He edges toward the kitchen silently, his senses reaching out in front of him to sweep at the spaces he can't see. He inhales no information; can't smell sweat or perfume or the faint tang of human _life_ that wafts off the living, soft and individual as a fingerprint.

If he weren't so focused, he'd wonder what his had been like.

A light noise again, but it's not repeat tapping. It's not gentle knuckles against the door. It's the sound of fingernails scratching, running across individual fibers of wood.

 _A normal person wouldn't be able to hear that,_ a know-it-all voice whispers within him. Which means the person on the other side of the door isn't normal, either.

He inches ever closer, the peephole a beacon, though every horror movie cliché he knows tells him not to look. As much as he is scared, he is always more curious.

His hands are dry as he raises them. They don't shake. He is so much more solid than he was before. He can't help but notice this as he leans forward, cups his fingers around the peep hole and looks.

A figure cloaked in black, stark against the beige of his apartment building's paint. And then nothing at all but an empty hallway.

 

***

There's something wrong. During the day when he's not thirsty, and especially at _work,_ Shane usually has no trouble pushing down the parts of him he'd like to hide. His willpower is iron-clad, and it has to be. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He doesn't want anyone to know what he _really_ is, to see what lurks beneath the surface of the easy, relaxed charm he'd had for so long—and fought so hard to pretend he still has. People used to be fun. Interaction, communication. Soft touches between friends—shared joy and laughter and pain. All tied together in the messy bow that was life. But now, it's too hard. He doesn't want to tempt himself with sharing the secret, with passing his burden onto the backs of others. They'll inevitably ask questions, of course, when they get too close. _Why do you disappear all the time when we go out? Why don't you ever talk about yourself? Why do you look the same as you did five years ago?_

He's lucky, he knows. To be alive. But he hasn't really been living. Not until Ryan, who he'd let himself get too close with, anyway. The occasional beer and dinner, catching glances of him at every opportunity, then turning away just in time before he got caught.

Ryan was always the exception. He was always the person Shane couldn't help himself with, couldn't keep away from.

He smiles, idly, thinking of the other man, then freezes. His lips have pulled up, brushing the longer, thicker points of teeth that have no place showing themselves at the moment. His tongue snakes out, bumping into the point of a fang in disbelief, before he shoves his chair back and speed-walks to the bathroom, hands balling into fists. He locks the door behind him, the metal cool under rising heat of panic under his skin.

He turns to face the mirror. His eyes, while not shining at their brightest, do not ring human. They're lit hollowly from within, like an animal who's been caught by a beam of light at night. His teeth are not fully extended, but they're too long, too pointed to pretend that everything is normal.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, fingers tracing the reflection of his body's betrayal. _What the fuck is happening?_ He's _never_ lost control like this, especially for no reason. Not even when Ryan was next to him, stretching and angling his neck _just_ so the arteries there stood out, pulse loud in Shane's ears.

_Ryan._

The name lands a little dully in his mind, a heavy thump that sinks into the bottom of his stomach. His body focuses on it, calls out for the other man, and just before conscious thought can step in and direct, he feels something inside of him opening, something unfamiliar—cool as the stream of a river over naked toes.

And then it hits. _Fear._ Not the creeping unease of being alone at night and hearing a noise in the next room; this is not ice in the veins—this is hot and primal, and absolute _panic._

Ryan. Something's wrong with Ryan.

Shane's world narrows to a singular focus, everything else fading to black around him. _Get to Ryan._ The air around him hisses against his skin, heavy and unexpectedly thick. His head jerks back on his neck, television fuzz behind his eyes and ringing in his ears, a low hum that only begins to clear as a lazy breeze brushes the hair back from his forehead.

_Breeze?_

Just before his vision abandons him, Shane realizes that he's standing at entrance to an alley. And he's not alone.

*

There's a hand intertwined with his. And a voice, slithering over ears that cling to sleep, to the heavy exhaustion that's seeped into his bones. Dreams would be easy to crawl back into. But at the flutter of his eyelashes, a give before the lids tighten defensively, words manage to make their way through—in tones he'd never ignore.

“Shane? Shane! Are you ok?” and then, “I think he's coming around.”

First, his lizard brain screams _RYAN!_ And then sighs in relief. Because whatever he felt this afternoon, whatever fear had tried to swallow him whole has gone away now. Ryan is next to him. Ryan sounds ok. And then the rest of the sentence hits.

_Who was Ryan talking to?_

He cracks an eye open, though they protest, raw and gritty like someone poured grains of sand between his lids as he slept. Which he obviously did. And he obviously doesn't remember doing.

“Wha?” he manages, taking in the face of Vilem as he approaches.

“You two,” his maker says, sitting down on the bed Shane's on, “are really quite the pair.”

Shane tried to rub two syllables together to make a full word, but when all he manages is a faint garbling at the back of his throat, Vilem rolls his eyes.

“Honestly,” he mutters, looking to Ryan. He holds his wrist out, over Shane's mouth. “Do you mind?” Ryan's staring, mouth open, before he stutters out an affirmative _go ahead._

“Come on Shane,” his maker sighs, “Take what you need so you can bring more to the conversation than caveman grunting.”

Shane would roll his eyes in return, but they ache enough, radiating waves of hot pulsations that shoot straight back into his head that he's half-certain they'll fall out if he tries. Instead, he angles his head back so Vilem's wrist rests at an easier angle, then sighs as he teeth lengthen, gliding easily past thin skin to the healing stream of blood rushing just beneath.

Life comes back to him swiftly enough, muscles relaxing as pain eases out, taking with it the stubborn fog that had settled between his ears. He drops Vilem's wrist a few swallows later, head falling back to the pillow beneath it as his veins thrum with the power of his maker's blood.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters when his senses fully return, bringing some clarity with them. Finally.

Ryan tightens the hold on Shane's hand. For a moment, Shane could lose himself in the touch, the feel of Ryan's skin against his own, the tracing of fingers in and out and around one another, but the absurdity of the situation clears its throat and he's pushing up, against the bed to take in two pairs of eyes trained on him, one calm, one wide. Hesitant.

“Okay,” he says. “Now that I'm back in the land of the living, does someone want to explain to me what exactly happened?”

“Ryan?” Vilem leans back, though Ryan shoots him a nervous look.

“Ok,” he says. “I'll try.”

Shane's about to scream, having had cryptic comments and mystery up to his temples after waking up from what seems like having been hit by a truck.

But then Ryan shifts into view, placing light hands on Shane's face so they cup it gently, fingers spread. He's staring deep, dark eyes boring into his own before they flicker and illuminate, a light switch turning on, though this one casts out a molten gold.

Shane's too entranced to notice much, until Ryan disappears from view, his touch suddenly absent. A door takes his place. Ryan's. It's nothing interesting to look at, and he's never thought much about it until the cool scent of _unnatural_ settles just beyond its boundary. Taps echo through the wood. Soft. Mocking. Too much time between them to do anything but cause worry. Ryan's presence breaks through now, weak and muddled, like a reflection in a puddle. He can scent fear and the certainty of wrongness in the air, and he's snarling before he realizes his teeth have slid to their fullest, making the threat deadly. Like a ghost, the memory of Ryan slides through him, evaporating past his cells to look for whatever's on the other side of the door. The shadow of someone, the slide of fingers against wood, and then nothing. No one.

He feels the pound of Ryan's heart like it's in his own chest, now, climbing up toward the back of his throat. It's familiar, the panic, and deja vu crinkles his brow, and that's when he sees it.

Out of nowhere, as if by magic, he appears. Shane watches himself arrive, arms reaching out for the door frame, off-balanced and disoriented. His eyes roll back into his head, Ryan's name on his lips as he collapses.

As reality settles back in around Shane, Ryan's touch solid and tangible again, he notices he's shaking.

“What the fuck was that?” he hisses, drawing back, not sure what he wants to deal with first. How did Ryan _do_ that? How had _he_ suddenly just appeared with no memory of having left work, or knowledge of where Ryan was?

The world is spinning away from him. Vampirism, he can deal with. Superhero bullshit powers are another thing.

“Shane,” Vilem says, tone edging on power-tangled, like he thinks Shane needs to be controlled. To be talked down from the proverbial ledge.

“Cut it out, Vilem,” he says. “Someone just tell me what's going on. How did Ryan do that? How did _I_ do that?”

“Shane, you know that vampires have certain _abilities_.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, shying away as Ryan moves to sit next to him. To touch him. “I can convince people to forget things and do what I want. So what?”

“Shane, that's basic.” Vilem surges forward, hooks a finger under his chin so he's forced to look his maker in the eye. “You've been denying what you are for so long, it took your mate being in danger for you to tap into your _real_ potential.”

Shane would take issue with the word 'mate,' because even with all he feels, a hot surge of loving protectiveness that rears its head when anything remotely related to Ryan comes up, _mate_ is not how he'd describe the other man. It's not...human.

“No, it's not,” Vilem agrees, skimming the thoughts from his mind like he's saying them out loud. “But neither are you. And I think your denial has kept your power at bay until today, when you felt Ryan's fear.”

Vilem stares into him, words firm. Shane knows he's doing this because he cares, but denial and shame and a hot twist of embarrassment are cartwheeling inside him, compounded by a sudden wetness on his face that tracks down from both eyes. “Why do you think I stayed so close when you were first turned?” His voice softens, and Shane recoils when he feels the pity Vilem has for him. “I was waiting for your power to manifest somehow. But it never did.”

Shane's throat is thick as he looks for a stall. “How—why are you even here?”

Ryan coughs.

“When you collapsed, Shane, I—I panicked. I took your phone.” Ryan hands over the device in question, an apology already forming on his lips.

“I—” Shane scrubs a hand over his face, pulls his limbs in and slides off the bed. “Listen, this is a lot. I—I just can't right now. I need to talk a walk.” He turns away, ignoring the hurt in Ryan's eyes, though it coils cold inside him.

“I'll come back, I promise. Just. Let me get some air.”

*

It's dark. He didn't expect that when the door to Ryan's house revealed cool night air and an inky backdrop. His watch says it's almost nine hours past the last time he checked it. He runs a hand through his hair, picks a direction and starts walking, steps slightly too fast. Vilem's words ring in his head.

 _No_. He's not going to think of that now. He's going to keep walking—or, he was. Until he spots a bar and decides that, yes. A beer right now is the answer. Or maybe 10. He walks in, thankful that his wallet is at least still in his back pocket.

One beer later, sequestered into a booth in the back of the bar, he gets a text.

 _Where are you?_ It reads. _I'm worried._

Ryan.

Even now, when Shane's the one acting out, Ryan's there. He always is, an unfailing support net, ready to catch.

_Shane. I think I need to feed._

“God,” Shane mutters to himself. “I'm an idiot.”

As he stands to go, the muscles in his legs contract, suddenly rigid. Like wind on a winter's night, he feels a cold presence settle in around him, light as a whisper. It's a surprising _lack,_ no scent or weight to it. But the hairs on his neck stand as they graze its power.

And then time seems to reset and he's awkwardly hovering over his table, staring down at the remnants of an empty bottle. The remnants of his grown-up-sized temper tantrum.

He can't shake off the feeling, though. That he's missing something, a shadow that's flitted off into the distance just as his eyes caught its path.

He needs to go home. Now.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ryan is fairly sure of a few things. His sanity, though it's been a trying few days, is one of them. The presence he'd felt in the hall was like an eraser mark on paper—there but illegible, a smear shrouded around a person. And as much as he breathes in, drawing the stranger's scent in to pick up any glaring details, all he gets is a breath full of stale air, interlaced with the faded scents of his neighbors' various perfumes and deodorants, memories of fresh morning work days.

“The fuck,” he mutters, turning to go back into the apartment. But as he goes, a breeze, like a caress, brushes against the skin of his cheek. He shudders with the sensation, vision blurring as he once again faces the hallway, moving before he'd even fully completed the thought of doing so.

The scent hits him before he can fully process the _how_ of the situation, and he surges forward, arms outstretched, to catch the man heading toward the ground like a sack of bricks.

_Shane._

He's limp in Ryan's arms, eyes open only just long enough to flash that alien blue before his irises roll back and his lids sink like heavy curtains.

“Shit,” he hisses, dragging the dead weight back in the apartment. He might be a lot stronger than he was before, but Shane's height is awkward, and Ryan feels weak, suddenly, flailing underneath panic that's settled around his heart, gripping it with talon-tipped fingers.

He can't call anyone. The thought is shrill in his mind as flannel (blue, soft from machine-washes and regular wear) bunches under his fingers, Shane's muscles unwieldy and slack beneath it. He lays Shane down, fingers straightening hair and brushing past lips. He's breathing. Deep, steady breaths that tie Ryan's feet to the ground when he feels like the world's a moment away from dropping out beneath him.

He can't call anyone. No doctors, who would probably figure out _very_ quickly that they're something other than human. No friends. No family. Ryan's pretty sure Shane hasn't told _anyone_ , save him, that he's a vampire, and now's not the time to be doing it. He rakes his hands through his hair, gripping at the sides of his head. Thoughts flit in and out of his mind at speeds he can barely follow before they're dismissed and replaced.

_Breathe. Focus._

It's like he's been dropped into the deep end of a pool for the first time, limbs flailing in depths he can't fathom, fingers spread to find purchase that isn't coming.

Until.

One of the many traits Buzzfeed instilled in him—in them both—was to always be available. To find props and go on coffee runs when he was a PA, and now to be in anything that needs an extra talent member. He holds his breath, chest still as he clumsy-fingers his way into Shane's back pocket, finding the beautifully familiar shape of the other man's phone.

With a deep breath, he unlocks it.

*

There all all kinds of intelligences, Ryan knows. Shane is more of a logical-mathematical type of thinker. He can jump from A to B, moving from letter to letter before dusting his hands off at Z and calling the problem solved. Ryan would start at Z, think about how B plays a role, then get distracted by L. He likes the small details that color the big picture, the humanity that seeps between straight lines on a page.

He's terrible with names, though. He can match a face to a voice having only met a person once, only to forget their name a thousand times.

One name, though, is burned into his memory like Shane branded it there.

_Vilem._

It feels old in his mouth, heavy with the memories of time passed. With the weight of Shane's life. He'd found the name and pressed it with steady fingers, his new physicality hiding the quaking of his nerves with ease. The conversation had been short. Vilem hadn't asked any questions. Had responded as if he knew something wasn't right already.

Hadn't needed to be told Ryan's address.

Ryan doesn't leave Shane's side, idly clutching at the other man's phone, holding it close in favor of watching his unconscious body. Staring at his chest to make sure the rise and fall there isn't an eerie illusion.

Vilem doesn't use the doorbell. Instead, three sharp raps sound from the other side of the door, loud and clear. It's an echo of earlier in the day, a dichotomy of emotion, because as he hears _this_ sound, relief surges heavy through his veins, enough so that he gasps under its weight. Help is here.

He throws the door open, words spilling from his lips fast and hot, a babble of incoherent _please help, he just appeared and now he won't wake up and I don't know what to do._

Vilem's gaze is soft, eyes dark as they take Ryan in. Ryan flushes, but embarrassment isn't what colors his cheeks. He's not being judged, or examined. There's affection in those eyes, reflecting back easy. Vilem is taller than he is, and he reaches to grasp Ryan's shoulders, clasping them gently as he speaks.

“We'll figure it out, Ryan. Don't worry.” Vilem glances at the apartment. “Can I come in?”

Ryan steps out of his way, sputtering an _of course, I'm sorry,_ as he shuts the door behind the other man.

“Wait,” he says, distracted. “How did you know my name?”

“Well, I am Shane's maker.” Vilem smiles crookedly at him, one side of his mouth pulling up higher. “But I also watch your guys' show.”

_Now_ the warmth in his face is out of embarrassment.

“Oh,” he replies dumbly. “Uh, come on. Shane's in here.” He walks quickly back to his room. Shane's right where Ryan left him, with no sign of movement.

“So,” he says, voice cracking though he tries to steel it, “Can you help him?”

“Breathe, Ryan. Nice and slow. Can you tell me what happened?” Vilem's speaking to him, but his eyes are trained on Shane,

“I—uh,” Ryan licks his lips, wetting them out of habit though they don't lack for moisture. It's in these moments that he feels so foreign in his own body, out of place when the little tics of his humanity shine through. “I felt something strange outside the apartment. A noise. Someone was knocking. And I swear I saw someone.” He rubs at his eyes, trying to will the memory back. “I—they were dressed funny?”

Vilem seems to take pity on him in the moment, because he holds up a hand, halting Ryan's frantic stringing together of words to make not-quite sentences.

“Why don't you show me?”

*

When Ryan was eighteen, freshly graduated and headed toward college in the fall, his father took him on a trip to Costa Rica. Just the two of them. He knew it was partially a reward for having graduated, but he could see in his father's eyes the bittersweet realization of just how swiftly the years of his childhood had passed. How the little boy he had been was gone by the hands of time, leaving a man in his place, right under his father's nose.

Their days had been filled with activity; jet skiing and hiking, swimming in the clear waters of the ocean and passing out with exhaustion at the end of each day.

Until the last—what he thought was going to be a relaxing beach day. His father had planned a surprise scuba trip at dawn, when they'd climbed sleepy-eyed into a boat, clutching coffee and stifling yawns between hands. But the sea breeze, the night's moisture still wafting in the air, had woken them up, eyes wide now at the rising sun. And then they plunging down until the weak sunlight was all-but blocked out, suspended in a heavy darkness. Excitement and fear had been holding hands within him, every nerve ending sparking. Electric. His body was fully aware that it wasn't in its own element, and it didn't quite know what to do about it.

A noise began then, while he was wrestling anxiety and exhilaration—soft but high-pitched, clicks and rolls and whistles that made his breath catch. Out of the darkness, what looked to be like long shadows at first, ghosts within the depths, stretched and gained shape. Orcas. They were lazy in their grace, idly toting the calves of the pod to the surface to breathe and dive back down. It was the little ones who approached first, curious about the odd-figured animals in their midst. They'd darted forward, then circled back to their mothers, so similar to human toddlers that Ryan had laughed behind his mask, air bubbles clouding around his head.

He wanted so badly to approach, but he knew he shouldn't. In the end, though, he didn't have to. With a single flick of a tail, one of the largest of the group, dorsal fin high and proud, had made its way over to him, turning to the side to look at him fully, taking in whatever information it needed. Ryan was stock still, unable to move under the weight of its gaze. Its presence was _solid._ It was like he could _see_ the thoughts behind the small, dark eye, could _feel_ it looking back into him as well. When they'd had to surface, he could that his father's cheeks weren't wet from just the ocean's waters either.

Looking into Vilem's eyes now brings him back to that moment, like he's being pinned down without being touched at all.

“What about Shane?” he asks, looking down to give himself a moment to collect. To avoid being cut down to the soul by those eyes.

“He needs to sleep it off for now,” Vilem replies, taking a seat on his couch. The man leans his head back, covers his eyes for a moment.

“You know, I've always worried about Shane.”

“Worried? Why?” Ryan sits next to him, curiosity overriding hesitation.

“Because after I changed him, he saw himself as something _wrong._ ” Vilem sighs. “We have to be careful, of course, not to be found out, but I didn't change him to _curse_ him.”

“You changed him to save him,” Ryan whispers, eyes suddenly warm. Itchy. “Like he did for me.”

Vilem's smile is thin, wan. “I did.” He shakes his head. “But let's save the psychoanalysis for a time when Shane's conscious.”

He stares into Ryan's eyes, focused now. “Shane told me you share dreams.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I saw how he—how you saved him.” Ryan swallows the sentence that almost passed his lips, sealing the _how he died_ away, not to be uttered. Made real.

“And he never enters your dreams?”

“No, it's usually me joining him at some point.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean—is that a good thing? Or?”

“Can we try something, Ryan?”

Out of nerves, Ryan's mind skitters to the fact that what Vilem's just said is basically a line from every bad porno _ever,_ but he shakes the thought away and nods.

“Don't worry, Ryan, I have no intentions of _that._ ”

_Did he just read my mind?_

“Unintentionally, yes. It's one of my gifts.” Vilem just shakes his head as Ryan tries to form an apology. “Don't worry about it. Let's get started.”

_Close your eyes, Ryan._

He feels the compulsion within the words, the power licking over every syllable, but it does its job. He gives over to the dreamy contentment of following directions.

“Now, think about what happened this afternoon. Picture it. _Feel it._ And—” Vilem takes his hands, gently, pulling them so that they're clasped on either side of the other man's face, fingers on his temples. Ryan feels the movement of his words before he speaks again. “And sort of, _push_ the memory toward me. Like you're throwing a ball and I'm waiting to catch it.”

The analogy works. Ryan fills himself with the memory; the strange presence, the tapping, the split-second image of someone on the other side of the door, and then Shane. Bursting into the hallway like a bat out of hell, nothing but still air one second, then his collapsing body the next. Like a projection, his mind opens and the light of it pours out into Vilem, who receives it with ease. While he vibrates with effort, the connection from Vilem is strong. Steady as a bridge over water. It's not as easy as with Shane, though, whose mind is open to him like second nature, their thoughts and feelings tied and overlapping with ease, a language all their own that comes like breathing. He has to focus here, like he's racing toward a finish line, each footfall taking effort but bringing him closer.

When the last of the memory fades, he pulls away from Vilem, heart pounding and breath coming fast. He's wrung out, sweat on his brow, the back of his throat aching suddenly with thirst.

“You,” Vilem murmurs, reaching out to squeeze Ryan's hand, “have a gift for that.”

He would reply, but a soft groan comes from the other room, and suddenly, only one thought is important now.

“He's waking up.”

***

Shane doesn't expect Vilem to still be there when he gets back. He also doesn't expect to be marched back into Ryan's bedroom upon entrance by his maker. As soon as he pulls his keys to open the door, it swings open and he has an armful of Ryan, his warmth and scent enough to soothe the chafe of unease on his mind. A little growl sounds at the back of his throat as Ryan releases him, but Vilem's sudden proximity quashes his more _possessive_ inclinations.

“Uh,” he begins, brilliantly, but is interrupted by Vilem's hand on his arm.

“Excuse us for a moment, Ryan,” his maker says, politeness dripping, though Shane sees through it. There is iron in the grip that holds him and ushers him away, a bone-cracking firmness that hints at what's to come.

_Shit._

The second the door eases closed, Vilem's in Shane's face, backing him up so firmly that the wall protests as his shoulder blades make contact with it.

“I don't care what kind of temper tantrum you're having,” Vilem hisses, eyes jumping on his, right then left, anger bleeding silver into their core. “You do _not_ leave your childe alone like that. Not when he's upset, and not when he obviously needs to feed.”

“He's not my—” The protest comes naturally, but a look from Vilem, eyebrows drawn, leaves it dying in his throat.

“He's not your what? Your childe? You _changed_ him, Shane. You might be involved romantically, but _you_ brought him into this world. And you are _responsible_ for his well-being. You wanted to save him? Then don't abandon him when he needs you because you can't deal with your own feelings.”

His eyes feel like they have sand in them, hot and gritty. He's shaking, having been forced naked and shoved in front of an audience. The spotlight is on him, and he can't hide behind a wink and a smile. Not now.

Softer, Vilem goes on.

“You made him what he is now _knowing_ what that entails. You could never him, could you? Could never hate that he's a vampire?”

“No,” Shane chokes out, the syllable breaking as his eyes give in and a tear slips down his cheek.

“No,” Vilem echoes, wiping it away, though he lets his hand perch on Shane's cheek, forcing their eyes to meet, forcing Shane to stay with him. To _hear_ him. “Then why is it so easy for you to hate that part of yourself?”

“I just—” Shane flashes back to himself in the alley, bloodied and broken, life bleeding out between the fingers balled at his abdomen. “I just felt so alone. I was going to die alone. And then I was different and like—” more tears slide down, but he gives in to them, eyes sliding shut. “How do you keep living if you can't let anyone know what you are? I don't even remember what being human feels like anymore. I _feel_ like a monster.”

Vilem shifts around him, pulling him down so their chests touch. His maker's hand is at the back of his neck, fingers digging into the short hair there. His breath is soft on Shane's ear, but his voice wavers as he speaks.

“You are _not_ a monster. The monster is the man that would've taken your life that night. In all your time as a vampire, you've never hurt anyone. I _know_ you've never wanted to. For all intents and purposes, Shane, you are my _son._ And I am so proud of you. But you've got to start _living_ again. Because you're just getting through the days now. And you're better than that.”

Shane holds Vilem tighter for a moment, sniffling before he lets go to swipe at his eyes and clear his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, voice gruff. “Ok.”

Before the moment is over, and he goes back into himself a bit, he reaches for Vilem's hand. It's smooth in his grasp, just as his own. Warm. He squeezes once.

“Thank you.”

Vilem looks at the floor, a smile twisting his lips up for a beat. He squeezes back, then drops Shane's hand.

“Now, I have something to ask Ryan.”

*

If Shane weren't so emotionally exhausted at the moment, he'd be laughing at the open-mouthed shock written across Ryan's face. As it is, a smirk manages to make its way across his mouth, which Ryan catches and huffs at.

“I mean—” his eyes ask the question his mouth has yet to get to. “Is it ok with you?”

“Of course, man. You need it. And he's offering.” Seeing that his words didn't really assuage Ryan's nerves, Shane takes his hand. “I have no problem with it, but only do it if you want to.” He shoots a look in Vilem's direction. “I mean, he's kind of old-fashioned. I guess he's trying to velcome you to zhe fhamily.” He puts on a heavy Count Dracula accent, adds some jazz hands and watches as Ryan's anxiety cracks.

“God, you're a weirdo,” Ryan says, cackling.

“Yes,” Vilem says, from the kitchen area. “And I am standing right here.”

“Eavesdropper.” Shane rolls his eyes.

“Don't be droppin' no eaves,” Ryan agrees, smile widening. Shane feels himself sink a little into the couch, heart unclenching just a bit as the other man's easy joy washes over him.

“You two are insufferable,” Vilem grouses. “Ryan?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, smile slipping off his face, eyes widening into awe. No fear though, Shane notices. The other man is excited.

“I'd be honored.”

Vilem puffs up at the words, sending a sharp look over to Shane.

“You know, I think he could teach _you_ a few things about respecting your elders.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, _Dad._ ”

Vilem take a seat on Ryan's other side, rolling his sleeve up to his elbow. He presents his wrist to Ryan, who grips it carefully, glancing back at Shane once to see if there's any hesitation in him. Shane just slides a hand onto Ryan's knee, stroking back and forth.

Gold melts into Ryan's eyes, lighting them up like a sunrise, and, precise as a surgeon, he bites down, a low moan sounding in the back of his throat as the raw power of Vilem's blood washes over him.

“You're telling me,” he mutters, trying not to focus too much on how hard Ryan's mouth is latched onto Vilem's wrist.

“Welcome to the family,” Vilem says on the other side of him, catching Shane's eye. He's hazy around the edges, like his mind isn't focused on this moment alone, and he gazes at both boys with such affection that Shane feels a little shy looking directly back. So he looks down, wondering why he feels a wave of sadness from his maker, just a note but distinctly present as he feeds Ryan, who kitten-swallows every drop offered.

After a long moment, Shane sees a flash of his tongue licking over the cuts he'd made, and then Ryan's head is lolling back and he's taking in air like he's just surfaced from a free dive. His teeth are still long, stained pink and Shane has to fight not to lick into his mouth and taste what's been left behind.

“I feel like I'm flying,” Ryan says, voice faraway, and Shane's not sure if he's talking to himself or not.

“Yeah, he has that effect on people.”

Ryan opens his eyes til they're half-lidded, takes Shane in and smiles lazily.

“On that note, I'll take my leave. Call me if you need anything.” Vilem turns to leave, but looks at Shane once more. “ _Anything._ ”

*

The door barely closes before Ryan's pulling Shane up by his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss that's rough with teeth still extended. Shane feels his lips tear, a sweet sting of pain that's kissed away by Ryan's mouth and tongue, his saliva healing it and stealing away the few drops of blood that had collected there.

“Fuck,” he whispers, backing off a bit so he can see Ryan's eyes, can feel the wild energy that's rolling off him in waves. “You blood drunk, man?”

“Feels like it,” Ryan breathes, smile stretching into devious. “Let it out, man. I wanna see you.”

Ryan must be doing something—must be teasing at the connection between them because his excitement, the pounding of his arousal with the beat of his heart—it's sliding over Shane like he's standing under a waterfall. Ryan wants to see his other side, the darkest, feral parts of him. It _excites_ him to see Shane like that. A gratefulness lights him up, so now it's him that surges forward, catching Ryan by surprise and forcing him back into the couch, limbs locks and mouths catching, toes curling for what's to come.

When he takes a moment to breathe, he knows his eyes are lit up, sees Ryan's eyes widen just a bit before he takes Shane's wrist, staring into his eyes before biting down with a firm _snap_ that forces his head back, a howl ringing out through the apartment.

“Holy fuck, Ryan!”

He drinks slowly, gazing up at Shane before releasing his wrist and pulling them both to their feet.

“Come on,” he says, turning to the bedroom, Shane just a beat behind.

 

*

_He watches from across the street, waiting under a patch of darkness the streetlights don't reach for. While it would please him to strike now, the moment isn't right. He needs to wait. The two can bask in their warmth for now, can enjoy the sanitary little lifestyle so easily given to them._

_Or so they think._

_Because there are consequences for every action. And this is a long time coming._

_He turns on his heel, the waves of their satisfaction nipping at his back like the tide slipping back into the sea, doing its best to send him reeling in the other direction. But he will not fault. He will not waver. He's waited too long, and the moment is almost here._

_Almost._

 

 


End file.
